


breaking down and building up

by harlequin87



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Asexual Character, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25013935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: The first time Owen seesthe guy, he just carries on with his weekly run. The second time, there’s a flicker of recognition as they make eye contact and give a steely nod in that way of road-hardened runners everywhere. The third time – that’s when he knows it’s going to be a problem.
Relationships: Owen Farrell/George Ford
Comments: 25
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Owen sees _the guy_ , he just carries on with his weekly run. The second time, there’s a flicker of recognition as they make eye contact and give a steely nod in that way of road-hardened runners everywhere. The third time – that’s when he knows it’s going to be a problem.

He can’t really explain it, even to himself. The guy isn’t exactly tall, dark, and handsome. Instead, he’s quite short (at least compared to Owen), has vaguely brown hair, and is arguably chubbier than most people he sees on a day-to-day basis. There’s something to him, though. Somewhere in the recesses of Owen’s mind, he remembers him. He doesn’t know where from, or why, but his face is familiar. His eyes have a glint to them too, a hint of a challenge which Owen can’t refuse. It might be more of a _what are you looking at_ than a _hello please take me to dinner asap_ , but it’s intriguing and it sticks with him.

In the shower after the third encounter, Owen runs through all the places where he could have met – or even just seen – this particular guy, with his fiercely mesmerising eyes. The obvious answer is through rugby. Over the years, he’s probably met thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of players around his age with brown hair. School? If they were the same age, then they could have been in the same year group, or a similar one. But with around two hundred pupils in each year, and him frequently missing school for training or matches, that doesn’t help much.

If he hadn’t met him in one of those two scenarios, then it would be unlikely that they had met before, given his teenage self’s unrelenting focus on rugby (and school as a distant second). Sighing, he gets out the shower and rubs at his hair with a towel. In the mirror, it’s momentarily the same shade of brown as the mystery runner’s.

There is an easy way to resolve the issue, he knows. Next time he sees the guy, he’s going to stop and talk to him – maybe ask for a date, if the conversation heads in the right direction. It would probably be on his next run, so in a week’s time. That’s fine. It’s not like the guy’s face alone will be keeping him up at night, anyway.

*

Owen had fully planned on giving himself the week to practise different versions of the conversation – a witty opening line to make the guy smile, a polite enquiry as to whether they know each other, and a smooth transition into asking to get to know each other better regardless, _maybe as a date?_ He’s halfway prepared, already bracing himself for the guy’s prickliness when he makes his advances.

It’s just – he’s a catch. He’s England captain, a local hero. Even straight guys would jump to go on a date with him around here.

What could go wrong?

Well, as it turns out – this. Externally, he’s a catch. Internally, he’s freaking out. The downside of being the pursued, not the pursuer, is that he’s never had to initiate contact before. His previous two relationships lasted several months before fizzling out, but the early days were always perfectly pleasant – once the other guy had made the first move. He was counting on another week at least to prepare himself, but now…

He’s in the queue at the Tesco Express on the way back from training to pick up some milk, and the guy’s there, just in front of him. He hasn’t noticed yet, thank God, but it’s only a matter of time. Does he go for it now, while there’s no chance of escape, and look like a dick? Or does he wait and risk the guy running away and missing his opportunity?

He’s just opened his mouth to introduce himself, his lips shaped in the fricative of a casual _hey_ , air already flowing over the vocal cords, when the guy steps forward to pay for his shopping. Owen grimaces. The guy has a full basket of stuff to get through – quite a lot of healthy food, he notes with interest – and the checkout next to him is almost finished. With his lone bottle of milk, he could pay quickly and come out of the shop at the same time as the guy. He scans the scene in front of him, anticipating how it will play out.

He hadn’t accounted for the relative speeds of the checkout workers, though. The guy’s shopping is being processed at the speed of light, while the person ahead of him is chatting with the Tesco employer as they pack their bag at the speed of a particularly slow snail. He grits his teeth. If it comes down to it, he can run after the guy – in a completely chill, not creepy way! – and catch him up once he pays for his stupid milk.

At long last, the checkout is free, and he rushes towards it. “Would you like a bag for that?” the teenager asks, eyes never quite seeming to make contact with him.  
“No,” he grunts.  
“Have you got a Clubcard?”  
“No.”  
“Would you like to sign up? Our reward scheme offers-”  
“ _No_ ,” he almost growls. He’d feel bad, but the guy is about to pick up his bags and leave.

“Cash or card?” The nasal voice is really playing on his nerves now. He whacks his card against the card reader, accepts the proffered blue token, grabs the milk, and goes.

The guy is standing by the donation box, reading the descriptions of each charity. As he gets closer, Owen sees him drop his token into the slot for the local LGBT charity. He allows himself a short moment of hope, then moves next to the guy to put his chip into the same slot. He’s sweating, for some reason, and a sudden irrational fear of dropping the milk bottle and splattering it all over _the guy_ crawls up his throat.

_This is it, then. Get a grip._

“Hey,” he croaks out, and the guy looks at him blankly. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hi. This might sound really weird, but do I know you? I’ve seen you running around town a few times recently and I’ve been trying to work out where I might know you from.”  
“Well, I know you,” the guy says with half a smile and the most reassuring northern accent Owen has ever heard, “but I don’t think that’s unusual.” Owen smiles at him, trying not to swoon too obviously and stop the flow of gorgeous, northern-tinted words. “You’re probably remembering my brother Joe, anyway. I think you played on the school team together a few times.”

“Joe-?” Owen trails off, racking his brain.  
“Ford,” the guy supplies grudgingly. “I’m George – the middle one. My dad coached your dad for a bit at Saracens.”  
“How come you didn’t play?” Owen asks before he can stop himself. The pieces are clicking into place now; he remembers the family, if not George specifically. They would have been neighbours for a few months in their early teens, but somehow there’s a blank spot in his recollections.

George’s expression shutters. “My parents didn’t let me,” he says flatly. Owen desperately wants to know why, but he can tell that he’s already pushed his luck. _Quit while you’re ahead.  
_“Hey, well, uh – it’s good to see you again,” he gets out. Asking for a date at this point would be decidedly unwelcome, and he decides to abandon the plan. “I’ll see you next Monday, then.” George frowns. “We both run then,” he stutters, “that’s where I’ve been seeing you, the last couple of weeks.”  
The other man nods and steps away. “See you around, Owen.”

As George – _the guy_ – walks away, Owen curses himself. He glares at the milk in his hand, shakes it a bit. _You really bottled that one, mate._

*

The encounter sticks in his mind, popping up at the most inopportune times. During training, while trying to parallel park, while waiting for kick-off at the weekend’s game – he can’t get George’s strange discomfort out of his head. He has to concede that being accosted by (for all intents and purposes) a stranger in Tesco probably wasn’t the most fun experience, but he’s positive that there’s something more behind all the prickliness.

He’s so fed up with the mystery that he eventually calls his mum for help. As a man in his late twenties, that doesn’t often happen, and she sounds rightfully concerned. “What’s the matter, dear?” she asks. He can hear Gabe shouting in the background and the dogs barking. Maybe it’s not a good time- “Come on, darling, you can talk to me.”

“I – there’s this guy,” he says at last. It’s not really a thing they talk about much, him being gay, but that’s not the relevant part of the conversation here.  
“Right,” she says, more interested now than worried. “You like him?”

“I think so, mum,” Owen says. He picks at a loose thread on his jeans. “But it’s complicated. Obviously he knows who I am-” Colleen snorts unhelpfully- “and I kind of thought I recognised him. He says he’s Mike Ford’s middle son – George. The thing is, I don’t remember him at all. He didn’t play rugby, but I’d have thought I’d remember him anyway.”

“Ah,” his mum says carefully. “You were the year below Joe, the eldest, because you played with him a few times. Jacob, the youngest, is about the same age as your sisters. Do you remember anything about the middle one – anything at all?”  
Owen huffs. “I’ve spent the last four days thinking about him and trying to work it out. I’m sure I don’t remember him.” Why is his mum being so roundabout with her answer? She clearly knows something. He scowls, then realises she can’t see him and relaxes his face again.

“I don’t know how to say this, love,” she says, tone soft. “How about – do you remember Jessica? She was the middle child, at least when we were neighbours.” Owen’s jaw drops. _Holy shit._ No wonder he couldn’t remember George. When they were in their early teens, George literally didn’t exist.

He corrects himself hastily. Of course George existed, just nobody knew. “Did you – did she, no, he ever say anything? Did you know back then?”  
When his mum speaks again, she sounds sad. “Sally-Anne told me that Jessica was struggling. She wanted to play rugby like her brothers, and Mike wouldn’t let her. Then she came out as trans – this was about a month before they moved away, I think – and Mike completely shut it down, forbade her to do anything about it.” She sighs. “I suppose he changed his mind, or Jessica moved out, and she became the George you know now.”

Owen’s head is spinning. “That’s awful. God, I never knew he was going through that.”  
“You couldn’t have known,” Colleen coos. “She was the year below, and you only paid attention to rugby at that point. You couldn’t have done anything to help her.”

“Thanks for telling me about him,” he says, emphasising the pronoun.  
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I hope everything goes well between you two – he seemed like a nice girl, from what I can recall.”  
“Bye, mum,” he replies, and hangs up.

Owen exhales, scrubbing at his eyes. _Wow._ When he’d called his mum to ask about George, he’d expected to be given a brief description of what he was like as a teenager, not – that. He bit his lip. Was it an invasion of privacy to find out something like that behind George’s back, not from the man himself? His stomach flops.

Uneasily, he reminds himself that George had made the connections between him and the Ford family, of his own volition. But had he? Owen effectively caught him with his shopping and backed him into a corner where the only route out was implying some deeply personal truth which he had followed up on.

He shakes the fears away. He shouldn’t have put George in that situation in the first place. But he went into it with the best of intentions, and doesn’t that count for something? At the very least, he would apologise to George the next time they saw each other running. His mum raised him with manners, after all, if not common sense.

*

He’s running past the cathedral when he sees George on the pavement up ahead. His first instinct is to speed up and catch him sooner, but the rational part of his brain stops the signal before even a few neurons have fired. He’ll catch up soon enough anyway, given the gulf of height and athletic ability between them.

He slows his pace a bit anyway, giving himself time to think. Coming up on someone from behind is always creepy, especially if they can’t get away. Checking both ways, he jogs to the other side of the road, then ducks up an alley. He knows the street – it arcs back round to the main road, so he can look like he’s just come across George by chance instead of following him for half a mile.

 _Apologise first_ , he reminds himself, _then let him end or continue the conversation. Don’t be a creep._ His heart is pounding faster in his chest, and not just because he’s moving faster to make up for running an extra few hundred metres.

He rejoins the main road – George is just about to pass opposite him. He mentally pats himself on the back and jogs back across.

“Hey, George,” he calls, trying to keep his breathing regular. “How’re you doing?”  
“I’m alright, thanks,” George says, drawing level and continuing to run past him.  
“D’you mind if I….?” Owen asks. George just grunts. He takes it as permission and falls into step with the shorter man.

“Look, mate,” he starts, “I just wanted to say sorry for the other day. It was a dick move, and I shouldn’t have pressured you like that. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”  
“’S’alright,” George pants beside him. “Most people would find it flattering.”

“Yes, but you’re not most people, and I don’t like using my _fame_ or _celebrity_ like that,” he says, terrified of messing up again. “I didn’t exactly have the purest of intentions, either.”  
George side-eyes him. “You do realise I’m a guy, right?”

“I do, of course I do,” he rushes out. “I mean – after we talked, I asked my mum about you, and I absolutely shouldn’t have, but – what I’m trying to say is, I know you’re a guy. I’m gay.”

George stops in his tracks at that. “This isn’t some sick joke, right?” he says, the indignation in his voice at odds with the way his body curls in on itself. “You’re not messing with me?”  
Owen forces himself to take a breath. “I’m not, I promise. I saw you on your runs and I thought you were really hot, so I wanted to ask you out. My family and most of my friends know, so it’s not like you would be some dirty secret, I swear.”

George shifts from one foot to another. “It’s a good thing you said hot, not sexy,” he said weakly. “I must look like a tomato right now.”  
“It is warm today,” Owen says with an encouraging smile. “I don’t want to force you into anything, but – have I got a chance? Say no, and I’ll leave you alone.”

The seconds of silence only serve to ratchet up Owen’s heart rate, making his head swim. “I suppose so,” George says reluctantly. He lets out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding in a whoosh. “I mean, I’d be mad not to – you’re so fit.” He coughs, ducking his head. “Well, obviously, you’re an athlete. I don’t know what’d be in it for you, but I’d like to try.” He smiles shyly. “We can take it slow. I don’t want all this-” he gestures at himself- “to freak you out.”

“Hey, no,” Owen says, oddly relieved despite himself, “that won’t happen.” Seeing George frown, he keeps talking. “Anyway – I’ll add you on Facebook, and we can talk later. I’ll let you get on with your run.”  
“Wow, I’m going to be dating a boomer,” he hears George murmur, and he jogs away with a smile on his face.

*

The next few weeks pass in a blur for Owen. He finds George on Facebook, they start talking – and they don’t really stop. The hesitancy and awkwardness is still there, but slowly the barriers between them are coming down. George is the first person he messages in the morning and the last person he thinks about at night. He’s falling, hard.

He learns more about George’s life now, about his job at an LGBT charity in Islington, and how he wants to get a dog but can’t guarantee he would give it a good life. In return, he tells George about the latest gossip on the team and how his sisters are doing at university.

They always steer well clear of those few months of overlap they had when they were teenagers. Owen isn’t sure whether it’s a gender thing, like George doesn’t want it brought up because thinking about having to live as a girl is too upsetting or uncomfortable or whatever, or if George genuinely has more interesting things to share with regard to his life now.

Either way, he makes sure to do some reading, trying to be a considerate – suitor is a horrible word, in his view, but it does fit. The main point he takes away from it is not to push George on topics he might rather avoid. (He does wonder how he’s supposed to get to know him better while still avoiding any potentially sensitive areas, which the articles seem to suggest is most of them.)

George is the first to float the idea of dinner, and Owen rushes to accept. They see each other regularly on their runs, but it’s not a good opportunity to talk or to impress George – he may be a professional athlete, but he still sweats.

The other man had picked a small Italian restaurant on the outskirts of St Albans. Owen had suggested a Sunday evening for their meal so he wouldn’t be exhausted from the game on Saturday, and George had agreed.

Before he leaves the house, he makes sure to check his appearance in the mirror in the hallway. He’s wearing a dark shirt and jeans with some nice shoes, and his hair is brushed neatly. The only issue is the cut across his left cheek where one of the opposition players had caught him on the face at the bottom of a ruck. There’s a line of five tidy stitches and the wound is already starting to heal, but he’s worried it will put George off his food.

 _Oh well,_ he thinks, getting in the car. _It’s not like he doesn’t know what you do for a living._

George is loitering outside the front of the restaurant when Owen finishes parking his car. The warm yellow light from within illuminates his face, and Owen can’t stop looking at him – he almost trips over a bollard, he’s that fixated by the man.

“Evening,” he says as he gets closer, gently touching George on the elbow. “It’s great to see you again.”  
“You too,” George says, looking him up and down appreciatively. “Not that I don’t like you all sweaty, but this is a good look as well.” His eyes catch on the stitches for a split second. Owen doesn’t really want to talk about it, the pain still fresh in his mind, but at least it’s a conversation starter.

They go in and take their seats at a table for two near the back of the restaurant, tucked away in a small alcove affording them some measure of privacy. The low murmur of the other patrons fills any dead air and the subtle décor gives the whole place a cosy feel.

“This is really nice,” Owen says, scanning through his menu. “How did you find it?”  
George shrugs, eyes fixed on his own menu. “I come here quite a bit with friends,” he says. He notices Owen’s distraction and looks up. “You okay?”

“Yeah, uh…” he stalls. Food and calories and weight and appearance were things most of the websites and articles recommended giving a wide berth, but he really needs to know, for his job at the very least. “I’m sorry if this is weird, but – do you know the nutritional content of these things?”  
“Oh, sure,” George says without batting an eyelid. “It’s all on their website – hang on.” He slides his phone across the table. “I usually go for the chicken Caesar salad without the sauce, if I’m being healthy, but I don’t know if that’s got enough protein for you and all your muscles.”

“Thanks,” Owen mumbles, distracted. He can’t afford a cheat meal, not with the way he played yesterday, but if he asks for that dish with less pasta and more vegetables, he could probably get away with it.

They place their orders, Owen feeling horribly demanding as he walks the server through his list of requirements. In contrast to George’s small margherita pizza, he’s basically eating for his whole team. He tries to push it from his mind.

“What happened to your face?” George asks, eyes flicking to the scar. “Rugby, I suppose, but what?”  
Owen smiles. He can talk about rugby all day – especially when George was the one to bring it up. “It was during the match yesterday. They were absolutely smashing us at the rucks, so I went in. Coach prefers me to stay out, but I saw a chance for a turnover, so I went for it.”

“Did you get it?” George asks, leaning forwards and resting his chin on his hand.  
Owen sighs. “No. Would have been alright if I had, but instead their hooker got me in the face. Bloody front row studs, I tell you. The ref sent me off to get stitched up, so I missed the last ten minutes.” He shrugs. “We still won, and it was good experience for little Max to finish the game off.”

George’s smile seems a little forced, and Owen is immediately self-conscious. “Sorry, mate,” he murmurs, picking at the napkin underneath his cutlery. “I didn’t mean to go into that much detail: I know it’s a bit gross.”

George’s face softens. “It’s okay. It just reminded me of this injury my brother had when he was younger. Jacob, the little one,” he says in answer to Owen’s unspoken question. “The same happened to him as to you, just closer to his eye. They thought he might lose it for a few hours. My mum was in absolute hysterics, so my dad had to stop him playing after that. He’s a coach now, so it all worked out in the end. Just a bit unpleasant, that’s all.”

Owen nods. George has just given him the perfect lead in to the question he’s been dying to ask. “So your older brother plays for Leicester,” he starts, watching George’s face closely to see if he needs to bail out of the question, “and your younger brother is a coach.”

George nods, seemingly anticipating the line of questioning. “I wanted to play, but there was no girls’ team at St George’s, or any of the clubs nearby. My dad wouldn’t let me either – said it was too violent for girls, and then after I came out the rules for trans players were way too difficult to satisfy back then.” He shrugs, chewing at his lip. “I wish I could have given it a try, but it’s too late now.” He forces a laugh. “I’m probably too short, anyway!”

Owen can’t stop himself giving the other man an appraising look. “If that’s the only issue – I know guys who play for England who are the same height as you. And you’d fulfil all the requirements about testosterone and that kind of thing, right?”

George shrugs again. “Technically, I could probably do it. But at this point, I’m mostly happy just watching occasionally. I’ve seen the injuries you lot get-” he gestures at Owen’s cheek- “and I’m fine leaving that to you and your massive salaries.”

Owen frowns, choosing not to pursue that particular argument. Thankfully, the food arrives at that moment. He sees George’s plate, smaller than his own and less full, and realises that the websites were probably right; he’s not the only one with a complicated relationship to food at this table.

They tuck in, eating in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Owen pauses to take a sip of his water, then asks, “I know we talked about it a bit before, but could you tell me more about your job? It sounds really interesting.” George finishes off his mouthful before replying. He talks Owen through the work that the charity does with LGBT youth at risk of homelessness and its trans advocacy network. His eyes are shining as he speaks, and Owen can see now that he doesn’t need rugby to fill a gap in his life – he’s already found a passion.

“That’s incredible,” he says honestly when George stops to draw breath. “Like, rugby’s my favourite thing and I can’t imagine doing anything else, but you’re really making a difference.”  
George swallows down another bite before saying, “Playing rugby and making a difference aren’t mutually exclusive. I know you’re not out to that level, but you do have a platform.”

Owen rubs the back of his neck. Even with George smiling encouragingly at him, the warm atmosphere seems to have turned cold. “I know. It’s just – I’m not ready to come out to everyone, and I don’t feel like I can support any initiative in the closet without feeling like a massive hypocrite.”  
George catches his free hand and squeezes it gently where it lies on the table between them. “I understand. You don’t have to change the world all at once.”

“I’ll think about it,” he promises. He doesn’t know how, but it’s worth it for the beaming smile on George’s face. He’d do almost anything for that smile.

The conversation meanders on as George picks his way through the rest of his pizza, keeping their hands entangled. They both decline the dessert menu without having to discuss it and Owen pays the bill. “I’d like to do this again,” he says as they shrug on their coats. “I really enjoyed it.”  
“Me too,” George says, and the knot in Owen’s chest loosens. “It’s your turn to plan the date, anyway!”

They make their way out to the car park, tentatively holding hands as the darkness of the night settles around them. “I’ll text you,” Owen says quietly, not wanting to disturb the moment.  
“See you on Tuesday, then.” George leans up to press a quick kiss on Owen’s cheek, then pulls away, walking to his own car with a wave.

Owen allows himself the luxury of closing his eyes and savouring the moment. He already knew that George was special. What he couldn’t have predicted, though, is just how much he wants the man to feel the same way about him.

The next date would have to be perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to be reverting to type with this one - less plot, more writing what you want to see in the world... Regardless, I hope you enjoyed it and I'd love to hear what you think in the comments.


	2. Chapter 2

The trouble is, he plays almost all his cards in the first few months. It’s a kind of escalating arms race as to who can organise the most interesting or romantic date. George pulls out the big guns of a picnic in the park (a bit cold, but the autumn colours make up for it), cooking dinner together (his culinary skills far outweigh Owen’s own, so it’s annoying for his competitive nature), and watching a film (both at the cinema and at his house – Netflix and chill in the strictest sense of the word, for which Owen is grateful).

Owen opts for the classics of carving pumpkins at Halloween, going to the nearest aquarium when they both have a full day off, and a long walk in Heartwood Forest. It’s almost Christmas when he realises that he’s really running out of ideas. The obvious idea would be a Christmas market or ice-skating, but he doesn’t want it to be cliché. He wants it to be memorable and unique for them.

It’s Jamie who first suggests it, one morning after training in the locker room. “You got anyone to bring to Ladies’ Night?” he asks, flopping down beside his friend. “We know there’s a guy at the moment, don’t deny it.”

Owen focuses on untying his laces to buy himself some time. Thankfully only Elliot seems interested in the conversation, and the rest of the team are in the process of leaving. “There is a guy,” he says slowly, “but I haven’t thought about asking him. It might get weird.”

“Oh, come on,” Jamie says with a grin, “all our girlfriends are coming. You need to introduce him to us, and to them.”  
“You’ve been with this guy for way longer than the others, mate,” Elliot adds earnestly. “It might be a good time for him to meet everyone.”

Owen shrugs, scratching at a patch of dried mud on his calf. “I don’t know. He’s not very-” he waves a hand around the room as if to indicate something- “into this environment.”  
Jamie zips his own boots into their bag. “Neither are most of our partners, Faz. Anyway, we’re all fine with you being gay.”  
“Or you’ve learned to shut up about it if not,” Owen says darkly, watching Billy walk out the door.

“It’ll be fun,” Elliot says encouragingly. “Anyway, everyone loves watching us and the academy boys get our kit off. He’s gay – he’ll have a great time!”  
Owen sighs. “Look, I’ll ask him, alright? No promises, but I’ll ask.”  
“Atta boy,” Jamie grins. “I’m excited to meet him.”

The charity event is being held the week before Christmas, so Owen has a few weeks to ask George if he wants to go. He wants his boyfriend – they’d made it official a few weeks ago – to be there, as much for the social aspect of the evening as for the chance to introduce him to his rugby friends. The only sticking point is the name.

Owen’s been very strict with himself so far about respecting George and his boundaries and making sure to read an article or two or watch a video every morning with his breakfast. He likes to think he’s improved over the last few months in his awareness of trans issues. He’s not inviting George to an event specifically for women – Josh brought his cousin last time, so it’s nothing new – but he’s worried that the name could put him off.

He knows that George is a man and he’s only ever seen him in that way, and he hopes George knows that too, but there’s something inherently more risky about bringing his trans boyfriend into a room of rugby players and their partners and expecting no comments to be made. He’s seen George be misgendered before, a handful of times, and he’s seen the heart-wrenching effect it has on him.

He doesn’t even know if he’s meant to be thinking about these things. Some people argue that you should essentially ignore what other people think and live life as you want, not accommodating their confusion or hurt feelings. Owen doesn’t think that’s what he’s doing: he’s trying to be considerate of his boyfriend and a good ally.

At the end of the day, he knows the only way he can resolve the debate going round and round in circles in his head is to ask George. A week and a half before Ladies’ Night, he’s regaling George with stories of the latest rehearsal of the first team’s routine when he decides he has to bite the bullet.

“Would you be interested in coming?” he says, trying not to break eye contact with the miniature George on his phone screen. “A couple of the lads thought it would be a nice way for you to meet everyone, and it’s usually a good laugh.”  
“Who’s going to be there?” George asks cautiously. _Not an immediate rejection, then._

“I reckon it’ll be all the players and some of the coaches – academy as well – and their partners or relatives, and then some people who buy tickets for charity and want to ogle some rugby players,” he answers with a reassuring smile. “Most people dress up, but it’s generally just a suit for guys – nothing over the top.”

“Okay…” George rubs at his face. “Who would I be sitting with?”  
Owen hums. “I can get you on a table with Elliot and Jamie’s girlfriends, if you like? They’re friendly, and those lads are my best mates on the team so they know to be nice to you.”  
“Okay then,” George says finally. “What time is it?”

Exhilaration rushes through Owen. “Seven. It usually runs until ten or eleven in the evening, so I can drop you home after if you want.”  
“That would be good,” George smiles, although his face is tight. “I’m excited to meet your friends.”  
“Me too, babe,” Owen says. “Are we still on for coffee on Wednesday?” George nods, they say goodbye, and they hang up.

He lets out a breath. It’s really happening now. George is meeting his friends and the team (not mutually inclusive, whatever the PR team tries to show). He’s going to meet them next Saturday, and he’s going to see Owen dressed like an idiot, dancing to bloody _Madonna_. Oh, God.

He messages his group chat with Elliot and Jamie to tell them that George is coming. _Please be nice to him_ , he adds as an afterthought. They immediately ping back texts of righteous indignation. _When are we not nice??!!_ Jamie asks, while Elliot settles for an _always for you, captain_.

He’s still not sure whether to mention George being trans or not. Obviously, sacred rule #1 is not to out people without their permission, but then he might want backup in case someone kicks up a fuss. He knuckles at his eyes and locks his phone. _That’s a conversation for future Owen to deal with._

Somehow, this (only mildly essential) question slips his mind until the day of the event. He’s too wrapped up in rehearsals and helping mend the costume Tom had managed to rip doing a particularly adventurous squat that he doesn’t remember until the afternoon. His stomach drops as soon as it occurs to him.

He sends a quick message to George asking if he’s free for a call and awards himself a quick toilet break to bang his head against the wall. He knew this would be a tricky conversation, and he still decided to leave it to the last minute. Thankfully, George responds in the affirmative while he’s pulling his hair out in the loo, so he ducks into an empty conference room and calls him.

“Hi, love,” George says, concerned. “What’s up?”  
Owen screws his eyes shut. “I need to ask you a question, and I promise it’s for a good reason and I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”  
“Right,” George says.

Owen can hear his steady breathing through the phone and he clings to it like a lifeline, crushing the phone against his ear. “It’s just – I know what this environment is like, and not everyone is completely supportive of – of the LGBT community. I thought it might be a good idea to tell some people – my closest friends, the ones I would trust with my life – that – that you’re, y’know, trans.” He can’t stop his voice dropping on the final word. “I don’t think anything’s going to happen, but just in case, it could be good to have someone to help handle it.”

George sighs. Nerves are coiling in Owen’s stomach, gaining more and more force as the silence drags on. “I see what you mean,” his boyfriend says at last. “Who would you tell?”  
“Jamie, Elliot, and Maro,” Owen replies promptly. “It could be worth mentioning it to their partners as well, seen as that’s who you’re going to be sat with.”

George sighs again, and Owen wants to hug him. He hates that they have to even think about this, that _George_ has to make contingency plans every time he goes somewhere. “I suppose,” he says quietly. “Let me know when you’ve done it, okay? And – thanks for thinking about it.”  
“Not a problem,” he murmurs back. “I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight. That photo you sent me of your suit looked very dapper.”

“I’d rather see you in your getup,” George snarks back, and Owen is suddenly glad they’re back on familiar ground.  
“Trust me, it’ll be worth it,” he says with a grin. “Okay, I’ll see you later, alright? Text me when you arrive and I can come out and meet you.”  
“Fine. See you soon, Owen.”

He stumbles through a halting explanation of the situation to his friends, and they agree to pass on the information discreetly to their partners. It’s a weight off his mind – but so much could still go wrong.

A few hours later, George’s text comes through and Owen rushes outside to find his boyfriend, shrugging a coat on over his costume as an afterthought. He’s standing by his car, shrouded in darkness save for the glow of his phone screen. “George!” Owen calls, and the man in question looks up, face splitting into a beaming smile.  
“Hey, baby,” George replies, putting his phone away and walking towards him. “How’s it going?”

As George comes closer and the light from inside fully illuminates him, Owen’s breath catches. He wants to compliment his boyfriend, but his mouth is too dry. George is wearing a relatively simple black suit and tie, and the tailoring is incredible. The jacket is tight across the shoulders, emphasising their breadth, and it skims over his hips. It’s the most put-together he’s ever seen his man.

“You look-” he clears his throat, swallows- “you look absolutely stunning. That suit is so good on you.”  
George flushes. “Thanks. It’s pretty much my only suit, so I’m glad you like it.”  
Owen shakes his head. “Like it? I could put you in a museum.” He extends his hand. “Ready to go inside?”

George takes his hand, and Owen can feel its clamminess. It’s not only him that’s nervous about this relatively simple act, then. “All the guys I told you about earlier, they know,” he murmurs while they queue to be let in. “Maro isn’t bringing anyone tonight, but Michelle and Katie – they both know as well.”  
George squeezes his hand. “Thank you, Owen,” he says.

They are admitted to the main room of the hotel after a few minutes, and Owen makes a beeline for where Elliot and Jamie are sat with their girlfriends. Everyone is still mingling at this point. He loosens his grip on George’s hand, a silent offer of _you can still back out_ that George, to his relief, does not accept.

“Guys,” he says, catching his friends’ attention, “I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, George.”  
Both men are immediately on their feet. “Hello, mate,” Jamie says, pulling him in for a quick hug. “It’s good to put a face to the – well, we didn’t know your name until earlier, but to the title, at least.”  
Elliot takes his turn shaking George’s hand, oddly formal all of a sudden. “Think of this as a preliminary to meeting the parents,” he says cheerily, winking at Owen. “So far, you’ve gained the seal of approval – congratulations!”

“Uh – thanks?” George says, unable to match the twin grins of the rugby players. Their excitement only grows as they hear him speak.  
“ _Wow_ ,” Jamie says. “You really expect me to believe that you found this one down here, Faz? He sounds just like you!”

Owen rolls his eyes, subtly squeezing George’s hand. “Alright, mate, just because you’re fifty shades of boring southern doesn’t mean we all are.” He turns to Elliot. “And you, mate – don’t go off on this whole parents thing. You’re literally a year younger than me!”

Leaving the two men chortling, he fixes his attention on George. “You okay, love?” he asks, glancing at the time. He’s only got five minutes to help if he’s not.  
“Yeah,” George says, voice a little shaky. “They’re not too bad, I guess.”  
Owen smiles broadly. “They’re a bit much to get used to at first, but their hearts are in the right place.”

He points out George’s seat at the table, between two blonde women. “Can I leave you with Michelle and Katie? We have to be backstage in a few minutes, that’s all.”  
“Sure,” George says, starting to move away.  
“Oh, hang on,” Owen says suddenly. “Oi, Maro, mate, come here!”

The man in question turns around and starts making his way towards them. “Is it too late for me to get with him instead?” George murmurs in Owen’s ear, surprising a stifled laugh out of him.  
“He’s tragically straight, I’m afraid,” Owen whispers back from behind his hand. “Lovely guy, though.” They both put on appropriately serious faces as Maro joins them by the table.

“Mate – this is my boyfriend, George,” Owen says, one eye on the time.  
Maro’s eyes widen in realisation. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, shaking George’s hand. “You make Owen very happy.” Owen wants to cringe at that, but his boyfriend seems happy enough about it.

They chat for a minute before the two rugby players have to excuse themselves, leaving George with Katie and Michelle. Owen can’t help his glance back at his boyfriend as Maro guides him away. His fingers are crossed that nothing goes wrong.

The academy boys are performing first, so the first team are spread through a few more rooms to keep them out of the way for the time being. Elliot and Jamie intercept Owen and Maro en route and corral them in a previously empty room. As the door falls closed behind them, Elliot grabs Owen in an exuberant hug. “He seems _lovely_ ,” he trills. “Shame about the accent, but he’s a sweet lad.”

Owen’s feeling all warm and fuzzy inside when Jamie speaks. “Honestly, like, good job, mate,” he says, standing off to one side while Elliot releases him. “Genuinely, you can’t even tell.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Owen says immediately, bristling. He’d been worried about Billy or someone like that, not his own friends.

“Just, like…” Jamie seemed confused by the strength of his reaction. “You can’t tell that he’s got lady parts under there, you know?”  
Owen’s mouth drops open, but Elliot gets there before he can. “Mate, don’t be an arse,” he says firmly. “You’re a guy, George is a guy – I don’t care what either of you’ve got going on down there _because I don’t want to shag you_. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah,” Maro adds from behind Owen. “If you wouldn’t say that to his face, don’t say it to us – and especially not his boyfriend, who we all know is nervous enough about this anyway.”  
Jamie deflates. “Alright, I’m sorry. Dick move, I won’t do it again.”

The atmosphere between the four of them is strained – at least until the time comes for their performance. Owen is supremely grateful that Jamie and Elliot are partnering each other for the dance; he’s with one of the younger guys, Andy, who is unaware of any of the drama going on behind the scenes.

The opening bars of _Like a Prayer_ come through the speakers, and the audience cheer. Owen looks at Andy and nods. He’s pretty confident in this dance. It’s not a patch on the _It’s Raining Men_ routine they pulled off in the academy so many years ago, but it’s still pretty decent.

They make their way through the slow part easily enough, and then the drums kick in and – inevitably – their shirts come off. The whooping coming from the audience is enough of an ego boost in itself but Owen can’t stop himself from seeking out George in the darkness, past the row of lights shining up at the stage.

He’s smiling, head moving in time with the music, and Owen could swear they make eye contact for a second. He goes hot all over and it’s only Andy’s hand on his shoulder which keeps him in sync with the rest of the guys. They make their way through the rest of the routine without incident and take a bow to raucous applause. This time, George is definitely looking right at him, a look on his face – almost predatory – that Owen hasn’t seen before. Nerves pool in his gut, but he doesn’t have enough time to process why before Andy (what a good lad, honestly) is tugging him off the stage with the others.

He makes sure to thank Andy for a job well done before going to sit with Elliot, Jamie, and Maro. The two best friends are hosting the prize draw, the organisers clearly counting on their easy banter to make the evening flow, but the rest of the squad are finished for the night – at least, before the small talk begins. Owen gives himself a few minutes to decompress before getting dressed in his own suit.

Their instructions, as always, explicitly state that they need to spend some time with guests other than their own, ‘because that’s what most of them are paying for’. Owen does a quick circuit of the room, making a few jokey comments to the swooning women before heading to George’s table. He looked happy earlier, but he doesn’t want to leave him alone with strangers more than he has to.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs, bending down to whisper in George’s ear where he’s still sat at the table with Katie and Michelle. “Having fun?”  
George twists to look at him, looping an arm around his neck. “That dance was so funny – we loved it!” The two women add their agreement and Owen can’t help preening a bit. He does like showing off for his boyfriend.

“D’you want to dance for a bit?” Owen asks as he tips his head to where a space has been cleared in the middle of the tables. “The playlist’s good; I heard some of it earlier.”  
“Sure,” George replies with a smile. His eyes are shining. Maybe it’s the public nature of the action, or he’s just still overwhelmed by Owen’s incredible performance earlier (he’d like to think the latter), but the happiness looks good on George.

They make their way out onto the dance floor, the other two couples tagging along behind. Owen can see Maro hovering at the edge of the throng of people, no guest to dance with. He won’t be alone for long, he thinks wryly. A gaggle of women are standing at the opposite side of the room, pointing at him and giggling behind their hands. George rests his hands on Owen’s hips and he returns his focus to his boyfriend.

They sway for a few minutes, gazing deep into each other’s eyes, until the music picks up into a more energetic rhythm. Jamie taps Owen on the shoulder and they join the wider circle: Jamie and Katie, Elliot and Michelle, Maro and a few of his admirers. Owen makes sure to keep checking in with George, knocking their shoulders together or nudging him with a smile. He’s making the most of this chance to let off steam during the season, and he’s confident George is too.

After a few more songs at the same frenetic pace, most of their group decide to take a break for a few minutes. George perches on Owen’s lap, pressing a kiss to the tip of Owen’s nose and looking challengingly at those around them. The worry that Jamie might make some ill-advised comment is lurking in the back of Owen’s mind, but he tries to push it away. Nothing has gone wrong so far, and there’s only an hour or so left.

The cycle repeats again: they get up, dance, get another drink, and slump down in their chairs to catch their breath. George is more and more comfortable with Owen’s friends as the night goes on, laughing and joking with Elliot and Michelle in particular over the pounding music. Owen lets him talk to them while he has a half-shouted conversation with Jamie and Maro. They see each other basically every day, but something like this, although still technically their jobs, allows them a bit more freedom to talk for an extended period of time.

Owen’s about to suggest that they go and dance again – _Man! I feel like a woman_ has just come on, and he really loves that song – when George stiffens beside him. He turns round, somehow already knowing what he’s going to see.

“Good song for you, this,” Billy says with an unpleasant smile. Mako’s hovering behind him, half like a henchman and half like he wants to intervene. “You know, I always thought little Faz here was going to hell for being gay, but now I find out it’s his girlfriend instead!” He laughs, eyes hard, as George scrambles to his feet. It’s a pathetic sight – Billy must have about five inches on George, and God knows how much more muscle.

Owen wants to get involved, to defend his boyfriend, but he’s frozen. His legs won’t move, his throat won’t let him yell – all he can do is sit and watch the scene unfold, a helpless observer.

“Don’t you dare insult us,” he hears George grit out, as if he were a million miles away. “We can report you for that kind of language.” He can see George’s hands trembling where they’re clenched at his sides, and – oh _shit_ – tears are gathering in his eyes. Someone needs to step in, but-

“Shut the fuck up, mate,” Elliot says, muscling his way between the two men. “That’s out of order, and you know it. Now, are you going to leave us alone to get on with our night, or are we going to have to deal with this ourselves?” Jamie stands up next to Elliot, pushing his chest out and folding his arms. Mako is backing away, Owen notices dimly, while George’s whole body is shaking.

And then Maro – beautiful, perfect Maro – is laying a hand on Billy and Elliot’s shoulders and pushing them apart, saying firmly, “This is a charity event. None of you are fighting, and if you do, I will tell McCall first thing tomorrow morning.”  
“But-!” Jamie blurts out, gesturing at Billy’s smug face.

“ _No_ ,” Maro repeats. “Stop it, all of you.” He looks down at George. “C’mon, mate, let’s go somewhere quieter.” He looks over at Owen, cocks his head. “You coming?” The steel in Maro’s voice is enough to finally jolt him from his stasis and he shoots to his feet.

With a parting glare at the Vunipolas, Elliot, and Jamie, Maro guides George from the room. Owen trails after them, feeling all kinds of angry. He’s pissed at Billy for saying it, to start with, but he’s even more angry with himself for not defending his boyfriend and leaving him to stand up for himself to someone almost twice his size. He digs his nails into the palm of his hand with a grunt. _Absolute moron, you were no help back then. Idiot._

Maro’s taken them to one of the physio rooms, far enough away that no noise from the party is filtering through the empty corridors. He flicks on the lights and helps George to one of the chairs. Owen can only stand and watch as Maro squats down in front of his boyfriend, murmuring gently to him.

“I know what it’s like,” Maro whispers, “to be the only one in a room. It’s awful and horrible, but I hope I showed you that other people can help you and stand up for you, because you deserve it and you are worth it.” George is shaking like a leaf, tears dropping into his lap and onto Maro’s hands. Owen knows it should be him instead, but he doesn’t know what to say.

After a few minutes, Maro gets to his feet. Owen’s still by the door, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I’ll leave you two to it,” Maro says as he leaves, shooting a loaded stare at Owen. He flushes. He knows he hasn’t been good enough, that relying on his teammate to comfort his boyfriend wasn’t the right thing to do. But sometimes – he gets trapped in that mindset and it doesn’t feel like there’s a way out.

The soft click of the door closing behind Maro forces him into motion. “I’m so sorry, George,” he says, voice thick. “He shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know how he found out but-”  
“Stop it,” George says suddenly, hoarsely. Owen shuts up obediently, drawing back the hand he’d started to extend.

George fixes him with a withering stare made all the worse by the tear tracks staining his red cheeks. “I don’t care how that situation came to be. What I do care about is how you stood there and watched.” Owen cringes, but he knows looking away now would be the worst thing he could possibly do. “You watched, and you let your friends stand up for me. They’ve known me, and about me, for a few hours. You’ve had months, and they still did a better job than you.”

“I’m sorry,” Owen starts, not knowing how to finish the sentence.  
“I don’t want to hear it,” George says flatly. “That guy was being transphobic to me, and you did nothing.” He stops, kicks at the floor. “Like, the homophobia thing, I get that, how you might not want to get involved and make it worse. But saying I’m not a guy? That’s no skin off your back to correct him. And did you? No.”

George stands up abruptly and Owen takes a step back as a reflex. “I’m not going to hit you,” George says, his whole frame sagging. “I’m absolutely pissed off with you, but I would never do that. I’m going home, okay?”

In that moment, Owen knows that he’s really fucked this up. This special thing they’ve been cultivating, him and this special guy he met by chance – he’s got to save this, somehow. “Text me when you’re home safe,” he says weakly, and he hates the tremor in his voice all the more.

“Fine. Goodbye, Owen.” With that, George walks out the door. Owen can only hope he isn’t walking out of his life at the same time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a warning - this chapter gets uncomfortable towards the end, with the ‘Asexual Character’ tag coming in to play.

It’s radio silence apart from that one text message for the next week. Owen hadn’t realised how much time he spent talking to and thinking about George, but now he’s bereft. He instinctively checks his phone first thing in the morning and before and after training sessions, but there’s nothing. Jamie, Elliot, and Maro try to get him to talk about the incident – Billy’s been reported for homophobic and transphobic language, yet again – but he just can’t. His throat closes over and his heart aches.

If it’s too much for him to even talk about, how must George be feeling?

It’s with that thought in mind that he finally screws up the courage to ask George to talk. He shouldn’t be playing the victim when he wasn’t the target, just a bystander (and not an innocent one at that) caught up in the crossfire. George responds to his rambling, convoluted message with a terse _come to mine, Wednesday 7pm._

Owen doesn’t want to prepare a big speech or come off like he’s reciting some rehearsed lines, but he knows his apology needs to be better this time. He has a list of bullet points he’s compiled over the previous few days which is scrunched up in his pocket, creased where he takes it out to read and annotate every half hour or so. It can never be enough to make up for it, but he has to try.

He knocks on George’s front door at the requested time. He’s wearing the shirt he wore on their first date as a memory of the good times, and he has hands shaking with nerves as a reminder of why he’s here. The door swings open, and the light spills out into the dark evening. He blinks a few times, eyes adjusting, before he sees George.

Maybe he’s expecting some physical manifestation of the suffering his boyfriend – if he can still call him that – must have gone through, but there’s not much. His eyes might be a little dimmer and his cheeks a fraction thinner, but that’s all he can determine at a glance.

“Come in,” George says at last, and Owen follows him into the living room. They sit at opposite sides of the room, Owen taking the armchair and George on the sofa. The younger man leans back and gestures at Owen, signalling for him to talk.

_Fine,_ Owen thinks. _If he wants grovelling, I’m going to bloody well give it to him._

“So, I’ve been thinking a lot this past week,” he says, one hand resting on the ball of paper in his pocket for reassurance. “I know what I did – or rather, what I didn’t do – was wrong, and it hurt you, and I’m so sorry for that. I’ve tried to improve and educate myself about trans stuff in the time we’ve been dating, and I know there are still blind spots, and this one was pretty major and had some bad consequences.”

He shrugs. His gaze drops to the carpeted floor between them. If this doesn’t work, what will? “I really hope you can forgive me, because I think we really had – no, _have_ something special here. I want to try harder and learn more and I want to do it with you.” He stutters to a halt, keeping his head bowed for fear of what he might see on George’s face.

There’s a sigh from across the room. “I’m happy you’ve been reflecting on this,” George says, clearer than anything Owen’s managed so far. “The thing is – I don’t know if you really appreciate how much it hurt me. Okay, he was attacking our relationship, and that was uncomfortable for you as well, and I understand that.” Owen nods, still not daring to look up.

“But for me, he wasn’t just ridiculing my sexuality and my relationship. He was telling me that my gender, something I’ve struggled with for years and years and which is basically the basis of who I am as a person, isn’t real; it isn’t valid.” George sighs again, and the words are rough around the edges. “Think about how I felt, standing there in a room full of people who will never know what that’s like, and the person in that room who I care about most does nothing. His friends intervene, sure, and I’m so grateful for them, but he just does nothing.”

Owen can’t stop the tears spilling from his eyes. He knows it’s not his pain, but just the thought of witnessing such a traumatic event and then exacerbating his boyfriend’s suffering is humiliating and awful and upsetting. He hates it – but George isn’t done yet.

“It’s been months, Owen, and you say you’ve been reading. Surely, somewhere, you must have come across the idea of, I don’t know, _being a decent human being?_ Your friends seem to have got a handle on that without doing the extra credit work. You’re a gay man, Owen. You play rugby with at least one homophobe on your team. You know what it’s like, and you still did nothing.”

“Maybe you were scared. Well, think about how I felt. I’m not the biggest, and I’m definitely not the strongest. If he’d decided to get physical, what could I have done? What could have happened?” Owen flashes his eyes up for a split second. George’s head is in his hands.

“I want to give this – us – another chance,” he continues, and Owen breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t deserve it, but he’s so thankful. “But, before we can do that, I think we need to take a break for a few weeks, to get some space and some clarity. I think it would help us both,” he says, catching Owen’s eye and holding it. “I really like you, Owen,” he finishes, voice cracking slightly. “I just don’t know if I can commit to this if I can’t fully trust you to be there for me when I need it.”

Owen nods slowly. It’s better than he had imagined the situation going – most of his mental run-throughs of the conversation culminated in George screaming at him to get out and never darken his doorstep again, and then him having to move to Newcastle or London Irish or somewhere equally hideous to run away from the ruins of their relationship.

“Thank you,” he mumbles. “I – yeah, I’m just really sorry, and I promise I’m trying.”  
“Me too,” George says sadly. They both stand up, and George walks him to the door. “Merry Christmas, Owen.” He squeezes Owen’s shoulder, then takes a step back.  
“You too,” he replies, choked up. “Have a good one – I’ll miss you.”

Walking out into the cold night air, he vows to do everything in his power to make things right. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he has to bear this cross of his mistakes for much longer.

*

If he’d thought the previous week was bad, the uncertainty of the following weeks is even worse. George hadn’t suggested a length of time for their break, although Owen knows better than to overstep the mark. He needs to let George come to him when he’s ready.

That happens in the third week of January. After a bitingly cold home match, he’s huddled under the blankets in front of his TV with some soothing rugby league commentary. His phone buzzes and he almost decides to leave it. Chances are that it’s one of the lads asking who’s up for a night out or who’s doing the optional training session on Monday morning. He may be England captain, but sometimes he’d rather just stay at home and – not _mope_ , exactly, but sit and think by himself.

The slightest chance of it being George leads to him leaning over and grabbing his phone from the coffee table. He turns on the screen, and his heart skips a beat. George has texted him, at long last. It’s not much – _I’m ready to give this another go, if you are_ – but it’s something, and he’ll happily take it.

_Of course_ , he writes back. _Think we need to have a proper chat first, though._ George agrees with that suggestion almost instantly, suggesting that they meet at the nearby park to talk. Owen sends back an affirmative, then snuggles back down into his warm nest. He’s lucky to be getting this second chance at all, so he’s determined not to mess it up.

The sun is shining brightly as Owen makes his way to the small lake in the park. Despite appearances, it’s still chilly and he’s wrapped up in about six layers of clothing. The ducks swarm him briefly, quacking to see if he has any food to offer them, but soon abandon him when no such offerings are forthcoming.

“Owen!” he hears George call from behind him, and he spins round. The other man looks equally frosty, nose red where it’s sticking out between a thick scarf and a woolly hat. “Hi.”  
Owen grins helplessly. “I missed you,” he says honestly.  
“Me too,” George says, stamping his feet. “Shall we walk and talk? I might freeze if we sit down.”

Owen nods – the coaches might not be best pleased if he catches frostbite over one of their only weekends off during the season – and they set off along a path together, making their way through rows of leafless trees. It’s pretty quiet around them, the cold stillness of the frost exacerbated by the absence of the usual squealing children. It’s peaceful, and Owen finds himself relaxing into it.

“So…” George begins, drawing out the syllable. “I want you to know that I still feel the same way about you. I really like you. I just think we need to be clearer with each other about what we want from this relationship, you know?”  
Owen nods, then notices that George seems to be waiting for him to reply. “I mean – yes, absolutely, that sounds like a great idea.”

“From my side,” George continues, “the things I really value are security and intimacy. It’s about knowing you’ve got each other’s backs and being comfortable being close with each other, whatever that looks like.”

His words conjure a series of images in Owen’s mind: curling up on the sofa together to watch a film, sleeping in the same bed, cooking breakfast together in the morning, and giving George a kiss as he goes off to work in the morning. “That’s – yeah, I would really like that,” he says, having to clear his throat. “The same for me. Staying over and all that stuff – I’d love to do it but I never felt able to ask in case I was crossing a boundary.”

George smiles at him, links their arms. “I’d be fine with that, for the record. Sex, too,” he says, and Owen’s mouth is uncomfortably dry. “I never pushed for it because you didn’t seem very interested, but I would like that too – if you’re okay with it, of course.”  
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Owen says, ignoring the churning in his stomach. There’s being honest and then there’s making George happy: he knows which one he’d rather do in this situation.

If George hadn’t brought it up, he would have been perfectly content in their purely romantic relationship. Maybe he’d like sex, but he never got to that stage with previous boyfriends and it was never an issue (at least for him). Although, on reflection… The realisation makes him all the more determined to make George secure in their relationship by going through with it.

“You’re quiet,” George murmurs, wriggling his hand into Owen’s pocket to join their gloved fingers. “Everything okay up there?”  
“Not that tall,” Owen says reflexively to hide his swirling thoughts. “I don’t know, I was just thinking-” He sighs, risks taking one hand out of his warm pocket to rub at his freezing face. “Would you like to come to the game next week? We’re playing Exeter at home, so it should be a good match. You could come round to mine after, and we can have tea, and then… Well, you know. We can see what happens."

"I’d really like that,” George says warmly, and Owen lets out a breath of relief. _Crisis averted._  
“I can email you the ticket,” he says, mostly to fill the space and avoid thinking about that terrifying blankness of _after tea_. “We get a few free ones a season, so it’s no bother.”  
“Thanks, baby,” George says. “I’d kiss you, but we’d probably stick together.”

“Maybe not, then.” Owen forces a laugh. Oh God, _why_ can’t he just say that he’s nervous and he’s never done it before and he’s actually more than nervous and he’s absolutely bricking it, already, about five minutes after suggesting it? It can’t be that hard – the talking as well as the, the _thing_ – but then so many people do it so easily all the time, from such a young age, and he’s in his late twenties and successful and famous and he still can’t do either. He stifles a groan, not wanting to worry George. Relationships are about give and take, he knows, and it’s his turn to make the sacrifice.

*

The next week sees him with an omnipresent bubbling of anxiety and stress throughout his whole body. A few of the lads pick up on it, and Jamie even tries to get him to sit down and talk about it, but he manages to weasel his way out of all expressions of concern with a tight smile and an apology; he’s late for a meeting.

(Charitably, none of them point out that he’s always punctual and would never dare be late for a meeting or anything else. They let him rush away and hide in the toilet, pulling at his hair and gasping for breath, and none of them push it.)

Game day is another kind of hell. He’s cleaned the house from top to bottom, even changed the sheets on his bed after getting up while swallowing down the nerves he feels just looking at the bed. It’s changed from a place of comfort to the site of all his stress, and he just wants it to be over with – or to never have to do it or even think about it in the first place.

George texts him before the match, a _good luck!_ followed by a heart, and it calms his fears a little. It’s not enough, though – Exeter somehow pick up on his uncertainty like sharks when there’s blood in the water, and Saracens are swarmed. To compound the misery, Owen has to go off for an HIA in the second half. Sat in the medical room as he’s cleared to keep playing, he can hear the tannoy going off with no cheers accompanying it. He briefly entertains the idea of messing up the last part of the concussion protocol to avoid more humiliation, but his morals take over and he trudges back out to complete the ordeal.

The locker room is sulky and subdued afterwards. There’s no music, no chatter, only the clank of studs on the floor and the ripping of tape as it is torn off battered bodies and tossed in the bin. Owen listens to Brad’s speech, impassive, then gets up and leaves as soon as humanly possible.

His boyfriend has already left to go back to his own house and pick up his stuff for the night, according to his texts, so Owen has at least a few minutes alone in the car to get his head on straight. He hits his head on the steering wheel a few times, then puts the car into gear and drives home. Hopefully it won’t be going from bad to worse, but who knows?

The drive is still empty when he pulls in and parks, so he goes inside and dumps his bag. He’s tempted to turn all the lights on, but he knows it’s supposed to set the mood more if the lighting is low, and his head is still aching a bit anyway. He sticks a pizza in the oven – he deserves it after that shitshow – and waits for George to arrive, fussing with his hair a little in the mirror.

When the doorbell rings, he goes to open it with his heart pounding in his chest. _You’re eating a pizza_ , he tells himself sternly. _Get a grip. If you don’t want it to go further than that, you’re going to have to man up and grow a pair._

“Hi, babe, come in,” he says, kissing George on the cheek and taking his bag.  
“Something smells good,” George says with a soft smile, resting his hand on Owen’s shoulder for a moment.

“It’s just pizza,” Owen says, following him into the kitchen. “I was going to do something more fancy, but after that nightmare? I just wanted some shitty carbs – sorry, love.”  
“Hey, no,” George says as he wraps his arms around Owen’s waist and rests his head on his chest. “It can’t have been fun. Shitty carbs cure all ills.” His tone turns sultry. “I can think of something else that might help too.” Owen smiles awkwardly and pulls away to check the pizza.

He pokes at it for longer than strictly necessary, trying to regain his composure. He can’t break down crying just at the thought of it; George specifically asked for it, and he needs to be a good boyfriend, especially after everything he’s done. When he straightens up with a groan – _should have stretched more, idiot_ – George has retreated to perch on the kitchen table, swinging his legs in a pose too studied to be casual.

They chat about nothing for the remaining five minutes before the pizza is ready, then Owen cuts it up and divides it between the plates. George has edged a little closer, but he’s still a careful metre away. Owen hands over a plate and they go through to the living room. He hopes his boyfriend thinks the slight shaking of his hands is residual tiredness from the match in place of the actual all-encompassing tension.

They sit together on the sofa, Owen intentionally moving closer to George and pressing their legs together. He’s rewarded with a beaming smile, and he suddenly feels lighter. It can’t be that hard, surely? He doesn’t know what George is expecting, what he’d define as sex in his presumably broad range of experiences (anything’s broad compared to Owen’s first-hand knowledge). Still, though – he’s done a lot of things he was initially uncomfortable with to make George happy, and he’s usually come round to enjoying them. Maybe this will be just one more thing to add to the list.

He’s not too confident about that, though.

Owen focuses on his pizza, methodically working his way through each slice. He’s very familiar with the concept of _eating your feelings_ , and although he might not be able to put into action too often, he understands the practice well. But the food is gone all too soon, and he sets down his plate with a gulp. How long is this going to take? Five minutes? Half an hour? Whatever it turns out to be, he’s sure he can push through. He knows he’s good at going through the pain barrier; this can’t be too different.

He turns to look at George, steeling himself. His boyfriend takes his hand and smiles. “You okay, love?” George asks gently. “You seem a bit – I don’t know, tense.”  
“I’m-” he bites his lip- “just a little stiff from earlier, that’s all,” he stammers. “All good, honest.”

George looks him up and down then, his gaze darkening. “Glad to hear it,” he murmurs, and shifts closer. Owen braces himself, not knowing where this is going, where George is going to touch first-

He allows himself a tiny exhale of relief as George’s lips press against his own. Kissing, he can do, and he knows he likes it. He cups George’s face in his hands, thumb brushing over the short hairs at the back of his neck, and kisses him slowly. It gradually becomes deeper, heavier, and Owen has to draw back for breath more than once.

“Alright?” George checks in. His eyes are blown wide and he looks happier than Owen’s seen him in months. Pride flickers momentarily in his chest.  
“More than,” he says huskily, and pulls George in again.

They’ve done this before, getting a bit heated, but never with the intent for more. He can feel the difference already; George is letting out little huffs of air and bitten-off moans, shifting restlessly next to him and letting his hands wander across Owen’s chest and arms.

Thus far, he’s enjoying himself. The attention, both giving and receiving, is making him all warm and fuzzy and he’d be happy staying in this hazy fug of mutual adoration forever.

“Can I-?” George asks, making a move like he’s going to straddle Owen’s lap. He doesn’t answer, just hauls him onto his thighs with a grunt. “Oh yeah,” George whispers as he settles into position, “that’s it.” His words are so reminiscent of the dialogue Owen remembers from his few abortive attempts at watching porn that a little shiver of cold slides down his spine, but he forces himself to relax. It’s nothing they haven’t done before. It’s going to be fine.

George is still moving above him, kissing down his neck while his hips are working in a more targeted motion, properly grinding down for the first time. It’s all Owen can do to keep his hands steady where they’ve settled at his boyfriend’s waist, occasionally mumbling a half-hearted, “Yeah, like that, baby.” Maybe the porn was useful, then.

He hates himself for it, but his eyes catch on the clock on the mantelpiece across from them, and he watches the hands slowly tick round over George’s shoulder. His boyfriend continues getting himself off, rubbing himself on Owen’s thigh, thankfully unaware of his discomfort. “You look so good,” he gets out, moving one hand up to caress George’s face. That much he can be honest about; his flushed cheeks and half-open mouth show just how much he’s enjoying himself, and Owen’s glad he can facilitate that for him.

George sits back, a hand unconsciously dropping from Owen’s shoulder to his crotch, just keeping the pressure there. “Do you want to take this upstairs?” he asks between heavy breaths.  
“Yeah,” Owen says, fake media smile firmly in place. He can’t ruin the illusion for George now, not when he’s so wrecked already.

George kisses him thoroughly before they get up, and Owen’s just relieved to have something he can reciprocate properly that George seems taken aback by his sudden enthusiasm. “Wow, you are keen,” he says. He’s reaching down, looking like he’s going to palm at Owen’s dick, and Owen intercepts his hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.

“You’re so sweet.” George smiles softly, a strange contrast to his messy hair and generally rumpled appearance.  
“I try,” Owen says, and picks his boyfriend up in a bridal carry. As long as he can disguise the shaking of his legs, this will win him some points whatever happens afterwards.

They make it up the stairs in one piece, George mouthing at Owen’s neck and Owen fully regretting trying to do this only a few hours after a game. His knees are trembling for a multitude of reasons by the time he lays George down on the bed. It feels like he’s barely blinked and his boyfriend has taken his T-shirt and jeans off. “Come on, baby,” George says, looking up at him through his eyelashes and spreading his legs a little, “let’s see.”

Owen flashes him a weak smile and yanks his jeans off, then takes the brief moment of privacy afforded to him of bringing his shirt up and over his head to let out a silent scream. _You can do it. Get a grip, Faz._ He makes sure to flex a bit; he knows that’s what people like to see, and George is no different. “Fuck, Owen,” he groans. “You’re so sexy. Get over here, shit.”

He knee-walks over to his boyfriend obediently, happy to be drawn into another searing kiss. Using his hands to map out George’s skin, that’s no hardship either. He knows from previous experience to avoid the scars from top surgery, and how George is more sensitive at the jut of his hips than if his nipples are touched. Within two minutes, he has George squirming underneath him, and absolutely no attention being paid to his own erection (or lack thereof.) _Perfect._

“Hey,” George says, pushing at Owen’s chest slightly. He sits up on his heels, while George props himself up on his elbows. “I know you’re a good boy, but you do know I don’t have a dick, right?” Owen nods silently, subtly wipes his hands on his thighs. “So, uh, I’m kind of assuming here, but it might be kind of new if you’re a gold star gay, hmm?” Owen knows this would be the perfect moment to tell George, to set the record straight, but matter overrules mind and he just nods again. It’s like being on a runaway train. He agreed to start, and now there’s no way he can get off (ha) without a huge crash.

“What are you comfortable with?” George asks, pulling Owen back into himself.  
“Oh, er,” Owen flounders. _Nothing_ isn’t exactly a helpful answer. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” _Nice save_ , he thinks as George flushes prettily.

“There’s not much I don’t like,” he admits. “Mouth, fingers, dick – it’s all good. You can go backdoor if you want,” he adds, gesturing behind himself. “I could do that same for you, if you wanted.” He clearly mistakes Owen’s shudder as a horny one, not a visceral reaction of repulsion.  
“How – how about I finger you?” he says quickly, not wanting George to discover just how not into this he is. At least his hands are quite far away, he rationalises. He can detach them from himself mentally if he has to.

“Oh, God,” George moans, one hand dipping inside his underwear. “Fuck, please. I need it, Owen, need you.” In the face of such enthusiasm, who is Owen to refuse?

He crawls forward, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Go on, show me,” he grits out. It’s another victory for the porn lines as George slowly pulls off his underwear. He literally can’t bring himself to look; his peripheral vision tells him that he’s neatly trimmed down there, but he’s unable to look any closer.

“Come on, babe,” George whines. His head is thrown back in anticipation and his eyes are screwed shut, making it easier for Owen to brace himself and look down. Fuck, he doesn’t even know where he’s meant to put it in. He settles for brushing his fingers over the very top of George’s inner thigh, which draws a high-pitched moan from his boyfriend’s mouth.

“Left a bit, please,” he grunts, humping his hips up into thin air, and when Owen doesn’t comply, he takes his wrist and pulls his hand across so his fingers are resting on his folds. Owen thinks he might be sick; it’s all wet and warm under his hand, and this is bad enough but he’s going to have to go _in_ -

Before he knows he’s moved, he’s curled up in a ball at the foot of the bed, shuddering and trying to hold back the tears. He had one job, and he couldn’t do it. _Backed out at the last second like a pussy, you twat_. His hands are gripping his knees tightly, white-knuckled, and then he thinks about where they’ve been and he’s retching, shivering all over and hating himself as he does so.

“Owen?” George asks hesitantly. “What’s going on?” When he’s gathered the courage to open his eyes and confront the expression on his boyfriend’s face, he’s met with confusion more than anger. George has put his shirt and pants back on in the time Owen has been freaking out, and he shuffles closer tentatively.

“Baby, what’s the matter? I thought you wanted this.” The bewilderment in his voice is enough for the tears gathering in Owen’s eyes to spill over. If he was normal, maybe he would have wanted to have sex with his sweet, funny boyfriend, but no. He’s a self-flagellating moron who doesn’t know where to draw the line and ends up hurting himself and everyone else in the process.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m really sorry.”  
“For what?” There’s a sharp inhale from the other side of the bed. “Oh, it’s not because – because I’m trans, is it?” There’s a definite catch in George’s voice, and Owen doesn’t know how he’ll cope if they both start crying.

“It’s not, I promise,” he says shakily, rocking backwards and forwards slightly. “It’s me, not you.”  
That answer doesn’t solve anything, of course. “But – you’ve had sex before, right? With guys? Like, I’m sorry, but it seems like the obvious conclusion.”  
“It’s – fucking hell.” Owen dissolves into tears. _Couldn’t say it before, can’t say it now – you’re a weak man, Farrell._

George moves a fraction closer, like he wants to reach out and touch Owen’s arm. He doesn’t, though, and Owen’s glad for it. “I don’t understand,” he says, and now a note of frustration is creeping into his voice. “You knew what I have going on down there, and you said yes the whole time up until just now. What changed?” He laughs bitterly and answers his own question before Owen has a chance to speak. “Oh, right, you saw just how tiny and freaky my dick is. I don’t know, Owen. I was expecting better from you, after all this time.”

_No_ , Owen wants to scream. _It’s not that, at all. It’s because it’s sex, and I’m a fully grown man with the libido of a panda, apparently._

“I think I’d better go,” George says, and the bed creaks like he’s about to stand up.  
“No!” Owen bursts out. “No, please, I can explain.” He probably looks an absolute sight, eyes red-rimmed and mouth quivering.

He’d like to think it’s credit to the trust they’ve developed over the course of their relationship that George doesn’t leave, and instead sits back down, cross-legged and leaning against the headboard. “Go on, then,” George says, and it’s close enough to his own exhortations earlier to set Owen’s skin crawling.

“I…” He starts, stops. “I haven’t had sex before.” The admission hangs in the air between them, an uncomfortable third presence in the room. “Haven’t even come close, actually, in any of my relationships or outside of them.” He can’t look up now and see George’s face, how he’s reacting to the news he’s been lied to. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re hot as hell and I really like you, but I just have no desire for any dicks to be involved.”

“Oh, Owen,” George says in a small voice, “I’m so sorry. I just assumed – and you kept agreeing – and you seemed into it earlier.”  
“I like the kissing,” he rushes to correct him. “That bit’s great. I just – anything else is a bit gross, for me.”

“Do you not, y’know, get yourself off at all?” George asks curiously.  
Owen’s face burns. “Sometimes,” he says. “It’s not a – oh, I saw a sexy guy, now I’m turned on thing, though. It’s more that I’ll wake up like that and it’s easier to just deal with it every now and again than get rid of it.” God, he wishes he could disappear from this conversation. It’s excruciating.

“Okay,” George says. “I’m not angry, love, I just wish you could have told me this before.”  
Owen dares to lift his head from his arms and look across at him. George’s face is kind, though his eyes are still sad. “I’m really sorry,” he repeats.

“How about we just go to sleep now, and talk properly in the morning?” George says, extending his hand to Owen.  
He takes it, nausea subsiding as he realises there’s nothing supposed to be following this simple touch: they’re holding hands for the sake of it, and that’s fine too. “Sounds good to me,” he murmurs, and they smile at each other.

“I left my pyjamas and stuff downstairs,” George says, “so I’ll just go and grab them, okay?” Owen nods, and waits until he’s left the room to flop down on the bed with a groan, covering his face with his hands. He really doesn’t deserve George, especially after all he’s done to him.

He hears footsteps coming back up the stairs and scrambles to get into his own pyjamas. “Looking good,” George says with raised eyebrows.  
Owen grins, knowing there’s no heat behind the comment. “I know,” he says brightly, pushing past the residual anxiety. “Up Wigan, and all that.” Having a boyfriend who accepts both his lack of sexual desire (probably, hopefully) and his Wigan Warriors pyjamas – he’s onto a winner here.

They go through their individual routines in a comfortable silence, then crawl under the covers. “We need to have a proper conversation about this,” George reminds him sleepily once the light has been turned out, linking their hands between them.  
“I’ll be ready for the full debrief tomorrow, captain,” Owen says, half-serious. George swats at his shoulder limply, and they fall back into silence.

Owen can only hope that George is able to forgive this, the most recent error in a long line of mistakes. The human heart can only take so much, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Owen: yes, communication is important, I have grown as a person and learned from my mistakes  
> Also Owen: communication? never heard of it in my life
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I’d love to hear what you thought in the comments :)


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning is awkward, to say the least. George is up and showered by the time Owen wakes up, judging by the wet towel hanging off the back of the chair. He rubs at his aching jaw – he’s always had a bad habit of grinding his teeth when he’s stressed, and this is no different – and swings his legs out of bed with a groan. It’s the usual post-match niggles with a mound of emotional turmoil piled on top. He’s exhausted.

He makes his way downstairs, poking his head into the kitchen first. There’s a used bowl on the side, so George must be around somewhere. He goes through to the living room to see his boyfriend on the sofa in the same clothes as the night before, feet tucked up under him and staring at his phone with a small furrow between his eyebrows.

“Morning,” he says, hesitant to break his focus. “Do you want a coffee or anything?”  
George looks up at him and his face settles into a smile. “I’m alright, thanks, love. How’s your head?”  
“My head?” he asks, confused.

“You had an HIA yesterday, remember?” George says, rolling his eyes and snuggling into his side briefly.  
“Oh, that,” Owen yawns. “Nah, it feels fine. Bit stiff all over, but that’s normal.”  
“Good, good,” George says. He presses a kiss to the side of Owen’s neck – the furthest up he can reach without having to stretch, Owen notes, endeared. “Breakfast, then?”

Owen nods and they go back through to the kitchen, George keeping close by him. It’s comforting, but at the same time it’s making the previous night’s nerves flare up again. The conversation has to be had, but he’s feeling like he’s about to be ambushed. It’s not even ten in the morning; a man can’t be expected to have a serious, potentially relationship-defining talk that early, surely?

He makes himself a plate of scrambled eggs on toast, humming along to the radio while George watches him and makes good-natured comments about his cooking abilities. They tangle their legs together under the table as Owen eats, and he obligingly feeds George a few forkfuls of eggs.

“I’ve been up for ages,” George whines, pouting.  
“I’m recovering from a full rugby match,” Owen answers in the same tone, unable to hold in his smile and offering his boyfriend a bit of toast. George takes it, grinning, and squeezes his free hand for a few seconds, then leaves him to finish off the meal.

He clears away his plate and cutlery and debates washing up, but then decides to stop procrastinating. _You have to stop chickening out of things_ , a voice surprisingly like his dad’s tells him. He takes his seat at the table again, repressing the feeling of walking to his own execution.

“So…” he says. “About last night.”  
“Yeah,” George says, deliberately making eye contact and holding it. “We need to talk about what happened, agreed?” Owen nods, lets him keep talking. One of them’s been to therapy and knows how to talk about emotions and all that uncomfortable stuff, and it isn’t him.

When it’s clear that Owen isn’t going to start speaking, George carries on. “From my side, I thought it was all okay. I kept checking in and you kept saying yes, which I know is no excuse, but…” He trails off. “I was into it, and I thought you were too, and I think that stopped me from picking up on the signs.” He sighs, rubs at his face. “Maybe we should have discussed it more beforehand, but I just assumed you would be fine with it. My only worry was the trans thing, but you’ve got so much better with that since we’ve known each other.”

He looks so dejected that Owen has to interrupt. “It’s not that, I promise. I panicked because – because I’d never got to that point of being, y’know, naked, with anyone and I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted that.” He bites his lip to keep down the discomfort swirling inside him. Actually saying things, out loud – he’s not really done it before, no matter how much his coaches pride themselves on _open communication_ and _honest relationships._

“Just to clarify,” George says steadily, “you were into it to start with? Like, last night you said the kissing was fine. Do you know what the point was where you started feeling less comfortable?”  
Owen squirms under his gaze. It’s so kind and accepting, and he’s not used to this kind of careful attention. In a rugby environment, sex is something to take the piss out of, not consider in all its nuances. “I guess… When you took your pants off, I reckon. Just, before then, it didn’t feel like it had to happen, but then it was like – time to put something in somewhere else, you know.”

His boyfriend leans over the table and kisses his flaming cheek. “Thank you for telling me, love. I know it’s not easy saying this stuff out loud, but it’s important we know where our boundaries are.” He props his chin up on one hand, tracing patterns on the table with the other. “Before you got up, I was doing some reading, and-” he pauses for a second- “please don’t take this the wrong way, and I’m not trying to define your sexuality for you, or anything, but…”

Owen fades out for a moment. He’s gay, he knows that – spent too many hours agonising over it to not be sure. What’s George suggesting? He’s tried to work on his aversion to, like, all kinds of – _bits down there_ , the underdeveloped sexual part of his brain supplies – because he knows it’s bad, or not chill, or something, to be gay and not be down with female parts, especially considering his current boyfriend. But, try as he might, no amount of visualisation has helped, and that’s how a situation like last night happened.

“Hey, baby, can you hear me?” He comes back to reality and the sensation of George’s fingers moving lightly over his wrist. “You okay there?” George’s face is filled with concern. Owen opens his mouth to answer, and George cuts in. “And please be honest with me on this, yeah?”  
He closes his mouth again, considers his words. “I’m gay,” he murmurs. “I like guys, and that includes you. I like guys for who they are, not for their bodies – their _genitals_ , whatever.” Even the thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“I’m not disputing the fact that you like guys,” George says, smiling reassuringly. Owen summons a weak smile in response. “I’m just wondering if you can talk about how you like them? I understand it’s difficult to put into words, but – is it how guys look? Is it their personalities? Do you think about the physical side of things?”

Owen drums his fingers on the table. What exactly _had_ attracted him to George in the first place? “I guess, it’s the appearance first of all,” he starts. _His eyes, the way he challenged him, didn’t try and flatter him or fawn over him like a lot of other guys._ “Attitude as well, though.” _A bit prickly, not that he wants to chase someone who’s clearly uninterested, but different enough to keep him hooked._ “And then personality.” _Checking up on him after games, taking him on sweet dates, leading him back to the path when he’s strayed more times than he probably deserves. Worming his way into Owen’s life like nobody ever has before, carving a place in his heart._

George’s voice is soft when he speaks again, and Owen knows he’s picked up on the subtext. “Did you notice what you didn’t include in that list?” he asks, rubbing his thumb over Owen’s knuckles.  
“Um,” he says blankly. He doesn’t generally think about the spaces in his attraction; the human heart is a mystery, isn’t it?

“You didn’t mention sex,” George says, looking at him with so much love in his eyes. “Now, I’d say that it’s something pretty high on most people’s lists – the first thing they might say. To me, at least, it doesn’t seem like a consideration for you. Would you say that’s accurate?”  
Owen chews at the inside of his cheek, turning over the question in his mind. “Well, yes,” he admits eventually. “I don’t think about it much, but I’m willing to try if my partner wants to.”

George sighs. “And yet you’d never got to that point before yesterday, when you were still trying to apologise for what happened at that event, weren’t you? I don’t want to beat about the bush, Owen. I don’t think you experience sexual attraction, and I think your previous boyfriends picked up on that and didn’t force the issue.”

Owen’s train of thought screeches to a halt. Of course he does. Everyone does. He’s gay, for God’s sake. It literally means being attracted to the same sex – he may not have done Latin at school, but he knows that much. He’s gay, and he just hasn’t got his head around the sex bit yet.

“I’m not saying you can’t identify as gay,” George says, somehow anticipating the question, “but something like homoromantic could be closer to your reality. What I’m trying to get at, love, is that you might be asexual. Based on everything that’s happened and that you’ve said, it could be an option to explore.” He shrugs, face open. “It’s just something to think about, that’s all. It could help you.”

Now, Owen’s not a scared teenager anymore. He’s learned, and he’s experienced, and he has some vague concept of asexuality – enough to know to not make plant jokes, anyway. But – him? He’s spent so long grafting the concept of being gay onto his sense of self, and now it might not even fit? There’s a strange buzzing in his ears and his skin feels too tight. He likes being gay. He doesn’t want to lose that.

“Shall we go and sit on the sofa?” George asks, voice breaking through the knotted muddle of his thoughts. Owen nods and allows himself to be guided through to the living room. They sit, sides pressed together, and stare at the mantelpiece in silence as Owen works through his tangled brain.

“If I’m asexual,” he says, voice cracking, “what does that mean for us? Like, you’re obviously not. Is that a deal breaker for you?”  
“No, of course not,” George says. He kisses the back of Owen’s hand gently. “It just means we can find other ways of being intimate. I – hmm, yes.” He coughs, then looks at Owen, impossibly soft. “I love you as you are, and I don’t want you to change yourself for me, or anybody else.”

Owen wells up immediately, chest so warm. He’s been on edge for so long, and it’s what he’s wanted to hear since he was fourteen and thinking he might be not straight for the first time. “I love you too,” he sobs, bringing George in for a crushing hug. There’s a damp patch on both of their shirts when they pull back, matching tear-stained faces and identical beaming smiles.

“You don’t have to figure this out alone,” George says thickly. “I’ve got you.”  
“I know,” Owen says. “I really, really love you.”

Then they’re both crying again, for the second time in twelve hours, but it’s so much better than the last time, and Owen would be perfectly happy to stay in this moment, however snotty and unpleasant he is, because his boyfriend loves him.

*

Things only get better from there. Owen’s still working on his communication – off the pitch, obviously, he’s loud enough on the field as it is – and probably will be for the rest of his life, but he’s already so much more comfortable expressing his feelings. George brought him to one of his friends’ birthday parties back in February in the fallow week of the Six Nations, and it’s somehow more intimate than anything they tentatively try in the bedroom.

(It’s a challenge for Owen, not having that immediate social capital of _being the England captain_ when meeting people, especially because all of George’s friends are infinitely cooler and more relaxed about everything than he could ever hope to be.)

He returns the favour by taking his boyfriend to the end of tournament do at Pennyhill Park and showing him off to the team. It’s an afternoon party so even the Newcastle and Exeter lads can get home before dark, and it’s just – really _nice._

It helps, of course, that Billy’s not there, having broken his arm for what seems like the hundredth time. As always, there’s a strong Saracens contingent so George has some familiar faces to fall back on. Owen had come fully prepared to shepherd his boyfriend around the team, but within ten minutes he’s lost him to Katie and Michelle, who are happily introducing him to the other guys’ partners.

“You two still going strong?” Jamie asks, sidling up to him by the buffet. They both watch George chatting with a few of the Leicester guys and their girlfriends – maybe they know him through Joe, but he’d have to ask.

“Yeah,” Owen says, not bothering to keep the fondness from his voice. It’s the end of the tournament; he can stop being the alpha captain for a few weeks. “Had a bit of a rocky patch last month, but we sorted it out together. He’s awesome.”

Elliot pops up on his other side, making him jump. “Give us a plate, will you, Jinx?” Elliot asks, reaching across Owen. He follows their gazes. “Michelle says he’s really happy with you, mate,” he says, knocking their shoulders together. “Good job – especially after Ladies’ Night.”

Owen represses a shudder. He and George have made a pact not to talk about anything that happened after the performance ended: it’s too painful for both of them, and they’ve learned the lessons and moved on. “Thanks,” he says, after a pause. “I’m trying my best.”

His best friends coo at him as they load up their plates, then move away, back to their seats. “Might want to check up on him!” Jamie calls over his shoulder, a parting shot. Owen pulls himself back from his daydreaming to see George standing and talking to Eddie. _Oh hell_ , he thinks, and starts walking towards them.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust either of them, but he doesn’t want to imagine what his coach might be telling his boyfriend. As he gets closer, weaving between the tables, he notices that George is actually a fraction taller than the Australian. _That’ll make him happy._

“Hey, love,” he says lowly, resting a hand on George’s lower back. “You alright?”  
“We’re just talking about your performance in the tourney,” Eddie answers with a twinkle in his eye. “Thought we might have to bring in this one’s brother after the Wales game, but you recovered well.”

Owen locks eyes with George, tilting his head with an unspoken _want to leave?_ George shakes his head imperceptibly and turns back, picking up where Eddie left off. “He wasn’t _that_ bad,” George says with a grin. “I’d’ve given him another chance before getting Joe in – but only one!”

Owen pretends to huff, but nobody’s fooled. This was what he’d been hoping for at the Saracens event: his boyfriend integrating with the team, meeting his friends, getting along with them. Maybe he hadn’t included banter with his head coach in his plans, but he shouldn’t have put it past Eddie.

“Don’t be mean to your brother,” he says. “He’s doing good stuff at Leicester.”  
“I’d still take little Maxy from Sarries over him,” George says, and there’s a bit of an edge to his voice that Owen now knows means to change the subject, fast.

“Doing anything nice over the break?” Owen asks Eddie, smiling at him a little desperately.  
“I’m coming to your game against Leinster,” Eddie says. “Might see you there,” he adds to George, who shrugs.  
“Maybe – it’ll depend how my hours work out.”

Then they’re off again, talking about George’s job. Owen knows he shouldn’t be surprised by now at how Eddie has an encyclopaedic knowledge of virtually everything, but he’s holding his own and asking some pretty interesting questions about George’s current project and asking if it would be worthwhile having someone in to talk to the squad about those kind of issues. George’s eyes widen a little at that, but he agrees readily.

Eddie excuses himself after that, wanders off to accost another unsuspecting guest, and George wraps his arms around Owen’s waist. “He’s fun,” he says. “Don’t see why you complain about him so much!”  
Owen mock-growls. “Oh, he’s a sweetheart now, but it’s very different when he’s making you wake up before dawn six days a week.”  
George snickers. “Rather you than me, babe.”

They mingle for a while longer. Katie and Michelle add George to a group chat, promising they’ll meet up and go for lunch or something soon, or maybe he’d like to sit with them at a match? Owen grins over the top of George’s head at Jamie. _Good luck getting him back_ , his friend mouths, and Owen laughs. It’s what his boyfriend deserves, after everything, and he’s just happy for him.

The forty miles back to St Albans are the most relaxed Owen’s been in weeks. It’s definitely due in part to being out of the pressure cooker of England camp after seven weeks, but it’s also how he can, through half-closed eyes, watch his boyfriend drive them home. There’s a focus in his eyes which brings back memories of those first few meetings, how hostile yet curious George was. He’s so grateful that he decided to give him a chance, and then a few more.

George catches him looking, and his face softens. “Tired, love?” he asks, patting Owen’s knee across the gear stick.  
“Just a little,” he says, holding in a yawn. “Glad to see you, though.”  
“Me too,” George murmurs. “I love you, and I can’t wait to have you home again.”

“Same,” he says, and this time the yawn defeats him. He stretches in his seat, arms splayed across the car. He frowns when George starts laughing at him. “Focus on the road, please, sir,” he says firmly. “We won’t get home if you crash the car.”  
“Aye aye, captain,” George says, and manages about ten seconds before collapsing into laughter again.

“Shut it, you,” he says, but it’s more fond than stern. He knows George understands too, as they hold hands over the centre console.

Maybe it’s not what he deserves, but it’s what he’s got, and he couldn’t be happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming along with me on this very self-indulgent ride; I’ve really appreciated all the comments and kudos.
> 
> Also - twelve days until Premiership rugby is back!


End file.
